Rainy Days Ahead: Getting Through versus Going Through

Rainy Days Ahead

That’s the message the bottom right hand corner of my desktop is trumpeting today, complete with a tiny picture of an umbrella.

Rainy days right now.

I would append this statement to the former because my life has been somewhat showery for a while now, with no signs of letting up.

I’m not talking about weather, of course. I’m talking about the pulse of the country and my own personal pulse, so to speak.

When I demonstrated an interest in writing as a young girl, my parents gifted me a little book called The Writer’s Eye. I never read the thing, being ever resistant to learning about the writing craft and much preferring to just do it. That said, I may have finally internalized the idea that, to a writer, everything is grist for the mill.

Such is the case with the notification on my desktop this morning. Those little weather alerts are probably there every day, but I don’t usually take notice. This one for some reason jumped out at me, perfectly characterizing, in my humble opinion, the state of the nation and my particular state at the moment.

Choosing Sun

Before we start tuning our violins, let me qualify my comments. Lest my words seem like a plea for sympathy, I want it known that I’m not feeling sorry for myself.

Well, not too much. It’s a tough habit to break, after all, and at one time in my life, I was a master self-pitier. But in recent years, I’ve come to realize the truth of Viktor Frankl’s statement (emphasis mine): “We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

In searching for Frankl’s attitude quote, I found a mountain of inspiration from this remarkable psychotherapist, including the little gem quoted below (emphasis mine). Little did this Holocaust survivor know how ahead of his time he was, given today’s rampant support for physician assisted suicide. I suspect this brilliant man, who survived horrors that stagger the imagination, would be appalled at the prevalence of so-called “death with dignity”:

“But today’s society is characterized by achievement orientation, and consequently it adores people who are successful and happy and, in particular, it adores the young. It virtually ignores the value of all those who are otherwise, and in so doing blurs the decisive difference between being valuable in the sense of dignity and being valuable in the sense of usefulness. If one is not cognizant of this difference and holds that an individual’s value stems only from his present usefulness, then, believe me, one owes it only to personal inconsistency not to plead for euthanasia along the lines of Hitler’s program, that is to say, ‘mercy’ killing of all those who have lost their social usefulness, be it because of old age, incurable illness, mental deterioration, or whatever handicap they may suffer. Confounding the dignity of man with mere usefulness arises from conceptual confusion that in turn may be traced back to the contemporary nihilism transmitted on many an academic campus and many an analytical couch.”

These are the kinds of things we need to read to drag ourselves out of the quagmire that sometimes characterizes life.

While I have grave concerns for the shape our country is in and, secondarily, find myself in a set of somewhat dreary circumstances, for once in my life – and maybe this is the definition of maturity – I’m seeing things with a sort of objectivity that encourages me.

For years I’ve been advising fellow believers to try to view things through God’s eyes. “I wonder what God’s trying to teach you” is a frequent refrain from my lexicon. I think this phrase is finally becoming less a platitude and more a reality for me.

What a blessing!

Fifty Per Cent

How on earth did we get from weather reports to percentages?

Trust the process.

A ways back I jotted down notes for a possible blog article – this blog article. I had been noticing silly things that were in the 50 per cent range, satisfaction-wise. For example, I had just replaced one framed piece of art – I’m looking at it now – with another. My desk sits in a sort of alcove that offers a convenient wall which invites decoration. A friend was collecting secondhand items to be sold for a worthy cause, and I saw this as an opportunity to swap one picture for another that I preferred. My friend collected the cash for my discard, and my workspace picked up something more pleasing to my eye.

Except for one thing.

Remember I mentioned that I work in an alcove? Well, my desk is heavy, right down to its glass top, and the computer tower and monitor that sit atop it don’t easily lend themselves to rearrangement.

You can see where this is going.

I didn’t want to do anything silly like ask for help, so I scaled a ladder and hoped for the best.

The best, as it turned out, meant: a) the glass top didn’t break; b) computer components weren’t knocked off; c) picture was successfully mounted; but d) it wasn’t centered.

See what I mean? The angle makes it look crooked; it really isn't. But it is definitely off center.

And you know what?

I’m living with it.

This is actually the second such mounting job I’ve done in recent months which has turned out less than perfectly. Things like this used to really bother me. I would remove nails and readjust (who sees a few extra holes once the art is hung?) until I got it just right.

Such precision no longer holds a place on my priority list.

I don’t want to say I’m too old for that, but, well, you know.

So, I got 50 per cent of what I was looking for. Actually, I got 75 per cent, if you consider that points a, b, and c worked out well, and d was the only defector.

I’ll take it.

I could share other examples where I’m looking to make lemonade out of sour lemons.

Case in point: like many women of my vintage, I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in.

That said, I have a few besetting ailments, but in the big scheme of things, they’re pretty manageable. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say, I’m grateful that when one condition flares up, the others – for the moment, anyway – have been remarkably well behaved. So, instead of dealing with arthritic aches along with asthma adventures, nine times out of ten, one is under control while the other is making its presence known.

Again, attitude is going to be key in how I view these things. I can either lament, “Oh, man, this cold is going into my chest, so now I’m going to have to break out the nebulizer machine and pull out all the stops again!” OR I can consider the flip side. To illustrate, I'll refer to a guidance counselor I once knew who encouraged students to take the “at least” perspective when they were feeling upset. For example, “My activities may be curtailed because of this respiratory infection, but AT LEAST I’m walking without a cane for the moment!”

Getting Through versus Going Through

There’s always a valley lurking at the base of every peak. Will we focus on the valley instead of enjoying the peak?

One of my family members has had plenty of adversity. Life-threatening health issues, financial setbacks, devastating family problems. This individual has consistently modeled a “bounce back” response to every challenge. I have watched with admiration the steadiness and resilience which have characterized this person’s response to surgeries, business misadventures, even death (and near death) of loved ones.  

That’s how I want to be when I grow up.

I want to learn to go through life’s obstacles with grace and faith.

I don’t want to just get through things that feel like suffering. I want to go through life’s vicissitudes knowing, as God’s child, I’m right smack in the center of His will, despite appearances to the contrary.

When I searched my blog for an article written back in 2012, entitled Through (which, incidentally, was written during a time of severe testing in my life), I stumbled onto a whole slew of my writings on the same subject. I offer them here in the hope that one or all may lighten the burdens others are carrying.

Because that’s the point, really, when you get right down to it. Like Christian in John Bunyan’s classic Pilgrim’s Progress, we can expect trouble. It’s going to come whether we like it or not. Bunyan knew of what he spoke; he wrote the book during his 12-year imprisonment, during which time he supported his family by making shoelaces.

Bunyan understood the truth of Hebrews 10:36-39:

“For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God you may receive what is promised. For, ‘Yet a little while, and the coming one will come and will not delay; but my righteous one shall live by faith, and if he shrinks back, my soul has no pleasure in him.’

“But we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who have faith and preserve their souls.”

Bunyan’s faith enabled him to live out the truth of Psalm 112:6-7:

“For the righteous will never be moved; he will be remembered forever. He is not afraid of bad news; his heart is firm, trusting in the Lord.”

Rejoice, in Spite of…

Rainy days may lie ahead, but so does our hope of heaven. I’m looking for the kind of faith that sustains the pastoral staff at my church. These folks have an uncanny knack for balancing pain and joy, even to the point of advising their sheep to “thank God for everything!”

And they mean everything. This collective group and their wives have experienced plenty of hardships since I've known them. Their resolve never changes. They truly do thank God for everything, ever seeking whatever growth is to be had within their changing circumstances.

Anyone who has been part of a Christian community knows, unfortunately, that the church is a breeding ground for love but can also include betrayal. It’s been said the church is the only army that shoots its own soldiers.

I wish I could prove this sentiment wrong, but I’ve been around too long to deny the truth of its caustic commentary.

I would ask my pastoral team to reveal the secret behind their smiles, but they would simply refer me back to the Book of all books.

They’ve learned not to make their happiness contingent on things going their way. They’ve weighed Jesus’s words and example, put them to the test, and found them more than adequate to catch every tear that accompanies the ministry.

Tears are the stuff of rainstorms, minus the salt, I suppose. They are also evidence of God’s hand in our lives, but He doesn’t leave us to dissolve into them. Rather, in His providence, He allows clouds to break over our lives only insomuch as they are necessary for our growth.

What a savior.

Tenebrae

The Service

Last night I attended a Tenebrae service at Llanerch Hills Chapel in Havertown. “Tenebrae,” a Latin term meaning “shadow,” is a Holy Week gathering which attempts to place the audience into the mind and heart of Jesus in the hours before His death.

I’ve attended such programs before, but this one truly moved me.

The Sympathy

The whole experience brought to mind Hebrews 4:15: “For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin." According to Rev. David Guzik’s excellent online Bible commentary, Enduring Word, the Greek word “sympathize” means “to suffer along with.” If I’m reading this right, one reason Christ came to earth was so He could suffer along with His children, walk in their shoes, as it were. 

What I value about Tenebrae is it gives me a chance to suffer along with Christ.

As much as is humanly possible, that is.

Our text was Matthew 26:30 through Matthew 27:50, which walks the reader from Jesus’s prediction of His disciples’ betrayal, to wrestling with His macabre mission, and ultimately, His undeserved death.

Like I said, this touched me.

Warning to friends and family, especially my children: I’m about to become very transparent.

The Sorrow

Chapter 26 verse 38 shows our Lord agonizing as He pondered what lay ahead. The text says He was “exceedingly sorrowful, even to death.”

I don’t know what it’s like to willingly die for the entire human race (thank God – and I mean that literally, not in the cavalier way many toss around the phrase), but I can relate to suffering to the point of death. I’ve faced that kind of anguish twice in my life, and I pray it never comes my way again.

For many folks, there comes a come when it takes more courage to go on living than to end it all. I fought that life and death battle once as a troubled teen and again as an agonizing adult.

As an adolescent, my grief centered on an unrequited crush, made worse by the young man’s attentions to another girl. Sounds silly now, but it felt very real and very raw at the time. Later, as the mother to two young boys, I became hopelessly depressed at the prospect of my marriage ending and having to raise them alone.

Both times, I found out I was far from alone. God’s love for me was poured out bountifully through the merciful kindnesses of parents and siblings (through blood and through marriage), and professionals who did their jobs well and compassionately. Not least, through the tiny hands and tender hearts of the little ones He chose for me to parent.

But I well recall the courage it took to wake up every morning and try to do each next right thing. I remember counseling myself that the only thing I had to do each day was stay out of a mental hospital, for the sake of my kids.

I had to stay alive to fulfill my earthly job, for the sake of my sons. Our Lord had to stay alive that awful night in Gethsemane to fulfill His duty to die for the sake of humanity.

A humanity that didn’t see Him as the King of the universe – far from it. They beat and ridiculed Him and assigned Him an ignominious death – a death which the Bible says was considered a curse.

Did He contemplate ending it all? Is that what He meant by “sorrowful, even unto death?”

If He could have called down legions of angels to loose Him from the grip of murderous men, surely He could have arranged a less gruesome death for Himself – or better still, a direct ascension back to heaven to reclaim His rightful throne. Why wait till after the resurrection to be swept up in clouds of glory?

While praying in Gethsemane, did He consider refusing the cup of God’s wrath and taking an easier way out?

The Suffering and the Substitution

Was His pain magnified by the inability of His closest friends to satisfy His simple request for companionship and prayer? By their nodding off, not once but three times, when He needed them most? By their subsequent failure to comprehend that loyalty meant making good on their promises to stick by Him, as opposed to brandishing weapons?

He didn’t need to be defended by flesh and blood – His fate had been sealed in heaven before the world began. What He needed was comfort and strength from those dearest to Him to sustain Him to the cross.

Instead, they fled to save their own skins, and denied even knowing Him.

What went through our Lord’s mind when the crowd insisted on releasing Barabbas – a career criminal – and called for excruciating death for the Son of God? It was recently pointed out to me that Christ literally took the punishment that would have been doled out to this evil man – an actual substitutionary death. The gospel doesn't get any clearer than that.

Again, I find myself trying to comprehend the emotions He must have felt on that brutal night by traveling back to an incident in my own life.

I was bullied as a child, and in third grade I had the dubious distinction of being “called out” by a peer who wanted to fight me for no other reason than the fact that I didn’t fit in. How well I recall the terror and helplessness of being surrounded in the schoolyard by cruel taunters who were literally out for blood.

My father learned of my predicament, and showed up in the nick of time to rescue me.

In contrast, Jesus’s Father turned His back on Christ so that mankind could walk away scot free from eternal punishment.

I felt great relief when Dad’s commanding voice scattered my persecutors; our Lord felt no such solace. I suspect the brokenness of His body paled in comparison to that of His soul when He cried out wretchedly, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?”

The Sacrifice

The awful yet beautiful truth is that the Son of God gave up His spirit and suffered a grueling death so that I might live. In His deity, He poured out His life, but in His humanity, He lost hope for a time so that my hope could be perfected.

What a Savior.

One Step Forward...

The Pity of It All

My sister, Jane, and I have been in competition this holiday season to see who is the most pitiful.

Not really, but it kind of feels that way. I’ve been trying to shake off a virus – not COVID, so don’t feel too sorry for me – but it did evolve into a bacterial infection. Jane’s been fighting her own good fight not to catch it from me. We’ve both been wiping down surfaces to an extent that would put the OCD detective Adrian Monk to shame.

Below is a photograph of me (cue the canned laughter) wearing a mashed potato poultice. Note the festive tea towel girding my neck. I know it looks silly, but the internet claims it reverses laryngitis – hey, if it’s on the internet… Listen, you scoffers, it worked for the Brady Bunch mom 50 odd years ago! Remember how Mrs. Brady was able to trill “O Come All Ye Faithful” at church on Christmas morning after being voiceless the week before? If it’s good enough for Carol Brady…

My sister, for her part, has been having adventures of her own. That’s her code word for annoying problems of varying degrees. Jane’s adventures have included issues with a rental car (the management, of course, is nowhere to be found); tearing the house apart to locate misplaced items (a problem solved by divine intervention which I’ll relate below); and most recently, being beset by phone problems. Tell me something. If smart phones are so smart, how come they can’t untangle the messes they seem so bent on falling into?

Here’s a snippet of some of our escapades over the holidays:

Thea: Laryngitis starts to abate; cough picks up where froggy throat left off.

Jane: Missing keys are located; cell phone service goes on vacation.

Hence, the title of this article – one step forward, two steps back.

I think it’s fair to say all this drama has left us both a little depressed. Jane’s idea of a Norman Rockwell Christmas probably didn’t include quarantining while her sister took YET ANOTHER COVID test (I’m about ready to make home test kits a budget item). My holiday wish list didn’t feature YET ANOTHER round of masks, gloves and, oh, of course, tension taming tea.

What’s most difficult for me is being out of step with my normal routine and unable to fulfill responsibilities. I missed work, opportunities to be with friends and family (those who are fortunate enough not to be sharing quarters with me, that is – Jane and I had ample time to bond over my vaporizer), and even holiday preparation. Every Christmas I threaten not to send cards, and every year I send a ton of them. This is the first time it’s ever really not happened. I make it a point not to infect recipients just in time for the new year.

Discouragement, too, has been dogging my heels. Doctor visits, after all, were never meant to be a source of entertainment, any more than antibiotics were intended to be soups du jour. My problem has gotten to be a predictable one, something I can count on at least once a year, and that fact alone is disheartening. Like a gentle breeze that gives way to a hurricane, it starts out tickling my throat and can end up in a hospital visit if I don’t get right on it.

Which reminds me – I wrote about this same subject a few years ago. A work injury necessitated a trip to the ER, causing me to feel vulnerable and uncomfortable. I traced the source of my discomfort to the “P” word – good old pride. I guess some things never change.

And, Yet…

Sitting in my doctor’s office for the second time in one week, I realized it was time to get back to basics. Stationing myself in a remote corner to avoid alarming patients who were only there to get allergy shots, I took out a scrap of paper and began scribbling a gratitude list. Here’s some of the good stuff I came up with:

1)     My doctor and I have a plan to further diagnose and treat the underlying cause of the regular parties the germ brigade seems to be throwing in my respiratory system. I’ll be seeing another specialist and hopefully getting some answers. How many end stage cancer patients would kill for such glimmers of hope!

2)      I have the best family and friends anyone could wish for. My little fairy godmother down the street, about whom I’ve written before, offers me homemade applesauce just when I’ve run out of the one thing my ailing throat doesn’t complain about. Family members do favors, run errands, make meals, and generally pamper me. My best friend and prayer partner steps into the gap, leading our prayer group and teaching Bible study in my stead.

3)      My employer, too, is among my blessings, coming through with paid sick leave and allowing me to leave early to manage my sick, sorry self.

4)      I’ve found ways to be of service even while down and out. A disabled friend of mine taught me that it’s important to serve in whatever ways one can. Everyone has something to offer, and our great God expects His children to make use of whatever He has given them. Let us remember, “For everyone to whom much is given, from him much will be required; and to whom much has been committed, of him they will ask the more” (Luke 12:48). No one is without something to give, even if it is just time or a listening ear. If even those things are impossible, the greatest gift we can give to one another is prayer.

 Not least, these niggling troubles have actually been growth opportunities in disguise. Take, for instance, Jane’s missing key ring, to which I alluded above. Among them was one that powers her rental car. The loss left her housebound and on the hook with the rental company.

Jane and I (mostly Jane) scoured the house, praying as we did so. Not being ones who pray to saints, we skipped over Saint Anthony and took our concerns right to the Lord God Almighty. After going to bed (and between coughing jags), I decided to get up and hunt through our dirty laundry pile. I plunged right into the germy mess and rummaged around. I could have saved myself the trouble, as I later learned Jane had donned gloves (clever girl) and done the same thing.

We both came up empty.

By this time, we had turned over couch cushions (what a crumby mess lay underneath that floral upholstery), rifled through coat pockets, upended trash receptacles – you name it.

I, for one, was out of ideas. Desperate to help the sister who had been tenderly tending me all week, I resumed my conversation with God.

“Lord,” I whined, “neither one of us knows where those keys are. You know they represent mobility and freedom to Jane. She needs them. Could you please show one of us where to look?”

Like a flash, it came to me. The day before, my neighbor had posted on our neighborhood Facebook page a picture of a set of keys she had found. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

We darted across the street and retrieved the errant keys, giving glory to the One who patiently waits for us to exhaust our own resources and throw the whole matter into His lap. Second Corinthians 12:9 comes to mind:

“And He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore, most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”

Vulnerability and Humility: Archenemies of Pride

I recently took a continuing ed class in which the speaker asserted that courage demands vulnerability. This gave me a lot to ponder, and I decided she was right, as courageous acts leave one vulnerable to defeat and all that goes with it. I would add that vulnerability is also required when one finds oneself dependent on others for that which one is used to doing for oneself. The dependence which arises from being ill or needing help of any kind vastly increases humility on the part of the recipient.

That, my faithful readers, is why I so dislike being sick. I much prefer to do for others and take care of myself. Oh, I don’t mind asking my sons to move a heavy piece of furniture or help me unravel a technology snafu – things like that exceed my capabilities, and I know it. But part of my self-esteem rests on being able to take care of my daily needs and follow through on commitments.

It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize God wants me to work on that.

One thing that helps is recalling the vulnerability with which the Son of God came into the world. He put Himself into the most helpless position imaginable, stepping down from deity and into humanity, with all the diaper changing and nose wiping the human condition entails.

I’ve noticed there seems to be a giving and receiving continuum. Some only want to give, refusing help of any kind; others are happy to simply take, without ever giving back. Both states are unbalanced, like a seesaw weighed down on one end. Finding a middle ground seems the most spiritual way. If God incarnate allowed Himself to be needy, even as He came to serve, it seems the height of arrogance for His creatures to err on one side or the other.

Bottom line: we are going to go through periods in which we seem to be stagnating. Illness, tangled business matters, sticky family relationships – all are things which require time and careful attention, and may, in fact, never fully resolve. No amount of whining or petulance will change the fact that some sloughs just have to be slogged through. Shortcuts are lovely when available, but our wise God sometimes allows roadblocks into our lives for a reason.

Sometimes the only way to go is through.

“Not that I speak in regard to need, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content: I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound. Everywhere and in all things I have learned both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” – Philippians 4:11-13

Check out part 2 of this piece, "Two Steps Back"!

 

Look to History

"I will remember the deeds of the Lord; 

yes, I will remember Your wonders of old." 

~Psalm 77:11~

If the past few months have taught me nothing else, they have indelibly impressed on my mind the need to have a working knowledge of history - both one's own, but also on the grand scale.

When the COVID nightmare began, I hurried and scurried to do my part. I threw my hat into a lot of rings, some of which worked out excellently, and others which turned out to not be my calling. The only thing I knew was that many were suffering with the disease, and still others were doing double duty to keep the world afloat. It seemed the most sensible things I could do were a) pray without ceasing and b) offer anything in my power to support those who were doing all the "heavy lifting." 

Little did I know what lay lurking around my own corner.

As my daughter-in-law posted on her Facebook page, our family has had to beat back an ugly cadre of characters in the last 30 days or so. I don't mind telling you, I could have used the help of a stud like Hercules to fend off, sever and (please, God!) cauterize the ever-springing heads of misfortune which seemed bent on destroying us. As one of my friends put it, I felt trapped at every turn.

I think what has been hardest for me personally has been fighting COVID. First of all, there's a stigma to this illness, and don't let anybody tell you otherwise. Let's face it, corona is the modern day version of the plague, and nobody wants to be hobnobbing with that interloper.

The illness itself has been frightening and unpleasant, but I've survived worse. What makes this beast so brutal is the isolation he imposes. For the past three weeks, while my son and I took turns with the virus, I felt alone - but not quite. We basically each had to segregate in our own sections of the house, while scrupulously cleaning common areas after every use (not something one feels like doing when one's most fervent desire is to sleep away all the symptoms and fears that come with this nasty invader). In short, when one most needs people as a buffer against terror and uncertainty, one must settle for aide from a distance, phone communication, and the wonders of modern technology.

Let me assert, though, that, while such devices may be poor substitutes for flesh and blood, they become most welcome when one considers the possibility of making due without them!

Let me also hasten to add, assistance has been in great supply for us! Countless offers of shopping, errands, and "anything I can do to help" have flown in from unexpected quarters. These have stood us in good stead, as even post-virus, one does not dare set foot back into the community until one hears from a medical person those marvelous words, "All clear!"

So, why do I link all this with an historical perspective? Because it's critical! Throughout everything our family has endured this last month (seems like a decade), my mind has continuously cycled back through the pages of history. For instance, pondering infant mortality rates under the best of circumstances before vaccines and medical advances made their arrival has shifted my gloomy perspective about our twins' lonely NICU stay into sheer thanksgiving that such help is available in this day and age. What Colonial mother wouldn't have cheered at the chance to entrust her newborn into the care of strangers if that meant her cradle would one day be filled?

The past has lent clarity to economic concerns as well. We all have times of financial struggle, and COVID has dealt a huge blow to many a household cookie jar. Study of the life of George Mueller has helped me banish self-pity and concerns for worldly security. Wandering through the pages of this Godly man's life, studying his secrets for success and prayerful provision for all the destitute children who relied on him, has given me pause and new lenses through which to view my own life's uncertainties. Simply put, if Mueller could do it, I can do it.

I could add more, but my body is telling me it's time to rest. I really just wanted to share that, when depression has reared its diabolical head in recent days, I have found solace and assurance through the lives of my forefathers, whose perseverance took the phrase, "stiff upper lip," to extraordinary lengths. I have also found it useful to review my own overcomings, especially over circumstances which "threatened to undo [me]." Somehow, the recollection of past "Hydras" being slain on the altar of faith has made today's bogeymen no less scary, perhaps, but infinitely more slayable. 

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? As it is written, 'For your sake we are being killed all the day long;  we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.' No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."

~ Romans 8:35-39~

Curveballs, AKA, I Think God Can...

“I think I can, I think I can…”¹

We all know that mantra. Goodness, I just read the story to my little grandson last week. Twice! Little did I know when he begged for a second reading how badly I needed to hear and rehear that timeless tale.

Life – no, God – has tossed a few curveballs my way lately. I’m sure when I describe them, many in my audience will be tempted to roll their eyes and wonder what all the fuss was about. But consider this: curveballs don’t look the same for everyone. As an educator, I watched students who floundered in the classroom excel on the basketball court. And vice versa. We all have our strengths and weaknesses – that’s one of the things that makes us a body in Christ. If everyone had pastoral credentials and could knock sermons out of the park, who would organize baby showers and meal trains? If finances were everyone’s game, we’d have picture perfect budgets but no one to shepherd the flock through triumphs and tragedies.

See what I mean?

With that disclaimer, let me describe a few of the happenings that semi-unraveled me over the past month.

The Trip

The first, coincidentally enough (it’s been said there are no coincidences on God’s watch), involved a train trip. I felt strongly that I wanted to support a friend whose only child had just passed away at a young age. To do so, I would have to attend the funeral out of state. This was no time for qualms. I began making plans.

I’m a nervous traveler. I like to get in my car and go places that are familiar. Take me more than 50 miles out of my comfort zone and I start looking for a companion and a Valium. In this case, though, I had no choice. I could’ve driven from my home in Pennsylvania to my New York destination; I’ve done it before. But I was much younger then, and my judgment and reflexes were sharper. In short, the driving option was out.

Therefore, I planned to go by plane. I have travel miles racked up from credit card usage, but it turns out the 20,000 plus miles I had accrued only translated to less than half the one-way fare. Who knew? I wasn’t terribly disappointed, because plane travel appeals to me about as much as, oh, I don’t know, bamboo under my fingernails. (I’ve never endured the latter, but I’d wager – if I were a betting woman –that would suit me better than boarding a jumbo jet.)

My resourceful sister, Jo Ann, came to the rescue. She lives only miles from a major transit station that traverses up and down the Northeast Corridor. All I had to do was pack my bags, camp out at her house for the night, and allow her the privilege of chauffeuring me to the train.

Seeing how nervous I was (not sure if it was my silence or the fact that I kept checking and rechecking my belongings that gave me away), my indulgent sister offered to escort me into the station and pretty much put me on the train. It took every ounce of courage and pride I had to turn down that desirable option!

There were a few wrinkles. I had to take two trains each way, as it turned out. And the railway stations aren’t exactly laid out for, shall we say, novices. I had to make quite a few phone calls to organize the trip (one of them was after disembarking from train one while sitting forlornly on a cold, empty platform wondering where my connecting train was). Then there was the matter of asking strangers for help. I can do strangers in uniform pretty well, but when it comes to fellow travelers, all bets are off. Eschewing thoughts of who might be lurking in deserted train stations and for what purpose, I screwed up my courage, tried to look confident, and babbled my questions. And you know what? Without exception, all my inquiries were met with smiles and helpfulness. The Lord – whose idea it was to foist this unasked for trip on me in the first place – even saw to it that I sat right across from a seasoned traveler on train one (who, incidentally, used a walker to get around, thus giving me the sense that if she could do it, so could I), and just next to the conductor on train two!

My next big hurdle came the following morning. Oh, there were mini-bumps in the meantime, such as an eardrum-shattering fire alarm sounding in the hotel for 20 minutes just when I was starting to get my bearings. Turned out there was nothing to worry about, but try telling that to a trembling tourist whose biggest thrill consists of not having any more thrills! In a related God-incident, while paring down my luggage and toiletries bag just before starting out, He nudged me not to remove a pair of earplugs. It was silly, really. I was the sole occupant of the room, so in theory, no one else’s snoring or loud TV or what-have-you was going to trouble me. In His omnipotence, though, the great I AM foresaw the fire alarm and knew those earplugs would mean the difference between calmness and chaos during an already nerve-racking experience.

We got that sorted out, but the morning of the funeral brought new adventures. Don’t misunderstand: what I’m about to share doesn’t in any way compare with the agony of what my friend was going through; her loss was and is unfathomable. That said, I’m sharing the stressors I encountered while feebly trying to support her.

She and I had agreed to go to the service together. A friend of her son’s would meet us in the lobby at 9:15 and drive us to the church. I had set my phone alarm and requested a wakeup call from the front desk.

I didn’t hear either one.

This is not like me. It may have had something to do with the Motrin PM I took to fend off the arthritis pain I anticipated after trekking through convoluted train stations. Or perhaps I should’ve watched one or six less episodes of my favorite sitcom before retiring to bed after a stressful day. Whatever the cause, I awoke with 15 minutes to ready myself and get my keister downstairs or figure out how to take my first ever Uber ride on a day when do-overs simply weren’t an option.

Not only did the Lord rouse me at 9 AM (why didn’t I wake at 9:15, when I was due in the lobby, or even later, so that I would’ve let everyone down?); He also put more time in my morning. I mean this sincerely. I had at least a five-minute walk to get to the elevator before hitting the lobby, and yet, I made it downstairs at 9:16 with time enough to check my thrown together look in the restroom before we took off.

It’s been said that God is never late but rarely early. That day, He was just in the nick of time.

I could go on and on. We had a snowstorm the day I traveled home, adding frigidity and fear of falling to my overzealous imagination. It wasn’t that cold and my boots did their job; neither fear came to fruition. Patient friends prayed me through, responding to my boku travelogue texts with words of encouragement. My daughter-in-law coached me through the Uber and Lyft mazes so I could get to the train station for the return trip. (I later found out she interrupted a conversation she was having at church to take my call and shore up her nervous mother-in-law.)  

Bottom line: I came home fried and frazzled but also assured that God had held my hand every step of the way.

The Truck

I went into a lot of detail about that last experience because it really stretched me. A simple train trip likely wouldn’t have derailed (OK, bad pun) other people the way it did me but, again, hard looks different for every one of us. I’m going to try to relate these next two anecdotes with more brevity because I think we’re all getting the point: God comes through in the clutch. Always has, always will.

I thought my survival badge was all sewn up (alright, I’ll try to make that the last one), but apparently not. A month after shepherding me through the great train caper, the Lord saw fit to test my mettle again. My next field test involved the mundane act of buying second-hand furniture and having it moved from point A to point B. I developed a somewhat complex plan involving the muscle of my two adult sons and beloved nephews; a pickup truck belonging to my sister and her husband; and the gracious indulgence of everyone involved in the move (and a few who weren’t) as every part of the original plan fell apart and had to be reworked at the eleventh hour.

The short version is, we had to switch transport vehicles not once but twice. My son and his cousins had the foresight to realize that the pickup we originally planned on using was simply not big enough to accommodate the items. Now, friends, believe me when I tell you I measured the furnishings and the rooms they were bound for up, down and sideways. It just never occurred to me to size up the vehicle versus the cargo it was being asked to carry.

Another case of two (or, in this case, three) heads being better than one.

Plan B materialized at the last minute. My son, who was slated for heavy lifting in the morning, did some preliminary heavy lifting (in the form of research) the night before. He suggested – no, he urged me – to rent a truck.

Let me backtrack for a minute. The contorted arrangements I had made involved me babysitting my four grandchildren, all under 10, Friday evening; spending the night at their house; then watching them again Saturday morning while others presided over the move.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Hearing the stress in his mother’s voice, Ethan sized up the situation – literally – and realized that logistically this wasn’t going to work. He further realized his mother’s bearings were at that point bare (maybe it was my shrieking at the squalling kids in the background that tipped him off), and he graciously phoned the rental place to get the deets for his semi-deranged mother. All I had to do was reserve the truck and show up in the morning.

Um, not so much.

Let’s just say nothing went as planned. The thing was only a 10-footer but looked monstrously large to a woman whose idea of hauling heavy loads involves hoisting a two-year-old with a blowout diaper onto the changing table.

Enter other son, the one with the four kids, who patiently fashioned plans with me over the phone while I was at the rental place. Being a tradesman, Aaron’s not afraid to man a rig. He dutifully texted pictures of his drivers’ license to the powers-that-be and shifted his day’s plans to execute the task at hand. This was all well and good until Plan B, like Plan A, began to unravel.

The first truck they assigned me was situated in a corner of the lot perpendicular to two other vehicles with very little space to maneuver it out of its position. Aaron’s a good driver, but I wasn’t sure this was the day to test his contortionist abilities with a box truck. The salesperson very accommodatingly swapped that one out for another more favorably positioned truck; however, when I started its engine, big blue letters flashed on the dashboard indicating the tires needed servicing.

Needless to say, my confidence was shot.

I don’t (always) need to be hit over the head with a billy club to get the point God’s trying to teach me. In this case, it was obvious I wasn’t meant to rent this rig. When too many doors slam shut, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re gonna end up with a smashed finger if you keep trying to wedge them open. I canceled the contract and hoped God would come through.

Blessedly, my other brother-in-law was going to be in the area that day. He and his pickup truck – which was also not quite big enough, but tie-down straps and ingenuity made up for that – did the deed, and I’m now the proud owner of a beautiful new sofa and rug.

I’m leaving out little things like having to locate my misplaced debit card when it came time to feed the troops; the ATM not working after I found said card; needing my daughter-in-law to calculate how much pizza I should order for the heavy haulers (and having to make three calls to order same because my brain cells were shot because of, well, everything); and probably some other mishaps which my mind has blocked out. The point is, I had to be willing to relinquish the furniture if the stars didn’t line up. They did in the end, but that was by no means a foregone conclusion, and I had to be ready to let go of what I thought I had to have if God didn’t make it happen.

The Tech

If my readers will bear with me, I’ll share one more bit of mishigas (that’s Yiddish for “craziness” – this one’s for you, Dad) with the idea of showing God’s hand in everything.

This past week I started an online course hosted by a ministry which seems to be seeking new writers for

its forum. The long and the short of it is, I wanted to make sure before the fact that my technology – which is old but not ancient – would be adequate for the job. The email instructions sent to students suggested we upload the latest Zoom app. This proved a bit daunting, what with needing to uninstall an earlier version but OK, I nailed that down. In the process, I located a wireless mouse I had stashed in a drawer which made right clicking a lot easier than using the trackpad. Again, a bit of setup required, but moving right along…

Next, I needed to make sure my Chromebook, which has been known to act up during virtual meetings, wouldn’t slur my voice or drag its feet or otherwise misbehave when I needed its cooperation. To this end, my faithful friend, Tina, who holds joint titles as ministry partner and keeper of all things technological, initiated a Zoom meeting to test things out.

Check!

Still, yours truly wasn’t satisfied that the Chromebook wouldn’t crash and burn during the lesson. Voila! Big sister Jane came through when I spotted the iPad she had given me last summer. I don’t like iPads, never have, but any port, as they say…

Jane’s login pattern was mercifully simple, and my memory mercifully resurrected it. But the darn thing took forever to charge! I wanted to have it on standby in case my preferred device, well, y’know.

While I was waiting – endlessly – for iPad to do its thing, somehow, for some reason, I got the idea that if I unplugged and reconnected the router, everything would go more smoothly. This was all a few days ago, so my memory’s a little fuzzy as to the why (wait till you get into your 60’s – you’ll see). I dutifully did the deed, only to find out I now had no internet on any of my devices.

Oy vey, as my father would say.

I did what anyone would’ve done – asked my non-techie friends if they could help me. The best advice I got was, “Call your internet provider.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

Jennifer at Verizon was an actual gem. So patient, so pleasant, so down-to-earth with her instructions. As a bonus, she got to “meet” Tina, who graciously initiated yet another Zoom meeting to test things out via three-way calling (love that feature). In the end, we asked Jennifer how we could pray for her. I know, people don’t do that sort of thing during a business call, but if, as Dickens opined, “mankind [is] my business,”² and if, as Scripture says, the Lord needs to be in every business transaction a believer undertakes, well, the rest becomes obvious.

Bottom line: tech got fixed; class went off without a hitch; Jennifer got prayed for; God got/gets all the glory.

The Trust and the Thrust

Why share all this?

Well, hopefully, my lack of self-confidence and subsequent mess-ups make for good stories.

But there’s more. So much more.

During each of these misadventures, I ran into the same brick wall: fear.

What if I get on the wrong train? Or miss it altogether? Or make my dear friend late for her own son’s life celebration?

What if I can’t find a way to transport the furniture? Or keep everyone waiting while I scramble to make this thing work? What if I left my debit card on the counter of the U-Haul place while I was trying to sort out this mess? Heaven forbid, what if there isn’t enough pizza?

What if I can’t get my internet reconnected and have to miss the class? What if my technology screws up and the course instructors decide I’m a screwup? What if I make a bad impression and the people I’m trying to wow with my writing abilities decide I’m not worth taking a chance on?

I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. My struggles look different than your struggles. What may seem silly or miniscule in your world was anything but in mine. What I did notice, though, as God kept throwing curveballs over the past month, was slightly less agitation each time.

Slightly.

My sons and siblings may beg to differ on that point, as they were the ones talking me down off the ledge with the furniture fiasco. Still, I did hear myself say to my sisters, who dropped what they were doing to enter into my predicament, “If too many doors are slamming shut, I have to wonder if I’m meant to have this furniture.”

This was huge because you need to understand, I wanted this stuff. I had everything all figured out – until it wasn’t. As plan after plan succumbed to setback, I needed to be willing to let go.

While sitting in the cab of that truck, I told Jane, “There’s only one thing I know, and that’s that I’m supposed to cancel this contract. This isn’t meant to be.”

Maybe the rental place would give me my money back without a fight. Maybe my brother-in-law would be able to haul the stuff with his pickup, but we couldn’t reach him to find out. Maybe this would all come together in the arranged timeframe without completely undoing everyone’s day. Maybe…

The maybes didn’t matter. The obedience did.

It’s been said that life is a great teacher and experience a wonderful coach. The part that’s left out of that adage is that fear often (perhaps even usually) accompanies the learning process.

It helps me to remember that Jesus’s disciples were once huddled in their rooms, depressed and anxious and fearful for their lives. Their leader had been brutally killed and their worlds rocked. They couldn’t comprehend the events of the crucifixion, let alone the resurrection.

It was all too much.

As one writer put it, “The disciples’ faith wasn’t instantly strong. It grew gradually as they processed their experiences and Jesus’ teachings. Their fear diminished as their faith deepened.”³

I find encouragement in both their cowering and their courage-finding. I picture a continuum of these two states of being that gives me hope that my frail vessel can navigate its own rocky journeys. That my trust is neither misplaced nor outmatched by any opponent. And that the great I AM trumps my “I know I can't” thinking with almighty “can do’s” anytime He chooses. 

What a Savior.

“God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.” – 2 Timothy 1:7

¹ Piper, Watty. The Little Engine That Could. G P Putnam’s Sons, 2001.

² Dickens, Charles. Christmas Carol, A. Tyndale House, 1999.

³ Jamil, Monica. “Why Were the Disciples Still Afraid? OUR DAILY BREAD.” OUR DAILY BREAD | Jesus is the way of The truth, & the life, 20 June 2024, ourdailybread.pro/why-were-the-disciples-still-afraid.